"I see. The Police give the show away by snooping too much?"
"P'lice lookin'—bohunk good," grunted the Indian. "Nothin' doin'.
Indian watchin'—bohunk not know."
"If I could I'd do what you want, but I'm not the Commissioner. Just the same, I'll put it to them. If they bother you, truss 'em up—only don't say I advised it, or leave me your widow to look after. By the way, where is she? Tressa wants to talk the latest prairie styles with her, and how to cure freckles. But come on into the sitting room and be comfortable."
He started for the front room, pushing the others ahead of him. Turning at the door to throw another banter at his guest, he faced an empty kitchen.
"By gad! There he goes again!" He went into the sitting room and sat down with a loud sigh. "That fellow can't even leave like a civilised being, and he don't come like one. He gets on my nerves. I don't know whether it's best to go down with the trestle with a knife in my gizzard, or to die of that spooky feeling nobody's ever invented a patent medicine for since Peruna."
Sergeant Mahon heard the Indian's curious demand with a calmness that surprised even himself. As for Torrance, he was completely bewildered.
"I suppose it sounded fishy to you," Mahon reflected. "I don't quite understand why it doesn't to me—except that we've found no reason yet to suspect him. . . . Wish I could talk with him."
"You kick around here for a day or two; he's sure to turn up down the chimney or through the keyhole."
Mahon shook his head. "He doesn't want to talk to the Police. It doesn't necessarily imply guilt in an Indian. He's watching us as closely as he is the bohunks. I'll wager he knows I'm here now. The Indians never liked the Police—like a boy under his dad's eye. I guess they know they've given us our hardest jobs. You should hear Inspector Barker's stories." He strolled to the door and looked over the river. "He's been guarding the trestle better than any of us," he mused.
Suddenly he swung about.